


til the end of the world

by woodchucks



Series: femslash 365 [3]
Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, F/F, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 13:46:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18012056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodchucks/pseuds/woodchucks
Summary: it's an au, it's the apocalypse, i tried to come up with a cool name for zombies. lauraela angst & cuteness, in the wasteland.





	til the end of the world

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: post apocalyptic au

The wind howls around their home for the time being, a tool shed between an overgrown forest and what likely used to be a middle class suburban neighborhood but is now just a smattering of vaguely house shaped ruins and crumbling asphalt where the street used to be. The shed is probably the only structure for miles with four walls and a roof and a single window that’s easy enough to cover with tarp, and when Laurel spots it from a hill, she yelps excitedly and Michaela pinches her in warning. Laurel doesn’t feel it though, already hoisting her bag onto her back and half pulling, half dragging Michaela down the hill and into the old neighborhood. They’ve been watching the neighborhood for days from that vantage point; there’s not a living soul around, and any non-living ones that might have ambled through the wreckage at one point are long gone in search of a beating heart to snack on.

It takes twenty minutes to dart from car to tree before they finally reach the shed. Another five to clear the interior, Michaela signaling to Laurel that she’s going around back. Laurel kisses the tips of her fingers and presses them to her heart. Michaela repeats the gesture, eyes already focused on the stretch of woods behind the shed, before taking off in a wide circle to come up on the far side of the shed where the trees threaten to grow into it.

There’s one body inside, its face unrecognizable, marred by the inhuman teeth of a Stiff and caked with blood, but it’s definitely dead, as indicated by the self-inflicted bullet wound in the center of the forehead. Laurel pries the gun from its stiff fingers, checks it for bullets. Only two missing. She tucks it into her waistband and grabs the leg Michaela hasn’t already started tugging on. Burying it takes close to an hour, their arms screaming in protest as they work tirelessly at the cold ground with a shovel and a hoe, but the blood is just fresh enough for the Stiffs to track if left outside and neither one of them wants to sleep in the room with the rotting flesh.

Inside, they push a shelf up against the wall where the window is and Laurel comes up with a makeshift bar to block the door while Michaela sets her jacket on the floor and sets a sleeve of stale crackers and two cans of tuna on it, tries to pretend she’s setting a real table in a real house, chasing some semblance of normalcy. They sit cross legged on the floor, shoulders pressed together, facing the door, their guns resting within arm’s reach on either side of them, and eat. Michaela tilts her head, leaning on Laurel’s shoulder. It’s as close to domestic bliss as they can get these days.

“How long will we stay?” Michaela asks through a mouthful of tuna. It’s so fundamentally not Michaela, such a blatant lack of manners and disregard for societal convention. But they haven’t really been able to be themselves, not since the world ended.

“Few days? Maybe a week, if there’s no movement. We can’t stay in one place for too long.”

Michaela sits up again and nods silently. Laurel knows she’s tired. It was months ago – possibly, they don’t exactly keep well-organized calendars – that they’d fought about the constant moving, Michaela demanding they stop for longer than a week at a time, stomping her foot in that Michaela way. Laurel, with the patience usually reserved for small children and the elderly, had calmly explained to her that it just wasn’t safe, and they’d only survived as long as they have because they move often. Then Michaela had screamed in frustration, guttural, from somewhere in the back of her throat, and shouted that maybe if this was all there was to look forward to for the rest of their lives, she didn’t want to keep surviving.

That spot had only lasted another day, the Stiffs alerted to their location by Michaela’s outburst.

Laurel really didn’t want to fight again.

“Sorry.”

Michaela shrugs, licking the salt off a cracker just to avoid the urge to look at Laurel’s face, and watches the door intently. “’S fine. You’re right. It’s too dangerous not to stay moving.”

Laurel turns her head, watching her partner curiously. They haven’t named whatever this is. Once, in the early days, when they’d still been hunkered down in Annalise’s house with the rest of the group – Laurel hated thinking about it, hated remembering their faces, hated remembering those who’d died – Michaela had asked what they were to each other. Naked under one of Annalise’s furs in front of the fireplace, shining with sweat and still out of breath, Laurel had told her it was probably best not to name it. After all, who started dating after the apocalypse, she’d joked. And Michaela’s face had fallen so quickly she rushed to take it back, but too late. Michaela stood and gathered her clothes, not bothering to put them back on - they’d all seen so much of each other already then - as she wandered out of the office and up the stairs.

“Nobody’s come past here in days now,” Laurel offers slowly. “We should be good for at least a week. Is that okay?”

“I’m not your child, L, so please don’t talk to me like one.” Michaela’s voice is laced with venom, a warning Laurel ignores as she snakes an arm around Michaela’s waist and buries her face in her neck.

“Obviously you’re not,” Laurel mumbles into the skin there, her tongue darting out to tease a pressure point. “Wouldn’t do this if you were.” She takes the hand that’s not pulling Michaela towards her and sneaks it under her shirt, trailing upwards to cup one of Michaela’s breasts. When one of Laurel’s calloused fingers brushes a peaked nipple, Michaela moans. They both freeze. Outside, the wind still howls. A tree branch scrapes the side of the shed. When they’re both satisfied there are no other sounds, Laurel’s hands and lips resume their journey.

It almost never takes longer than twenty minutes now, the whole thing very uniform, which Laurel finds to be a bit of a mood ruiner. Though not as much as, well, everything else. Still, they both need this; the closeness, the relief.

After, Michaela volunteers for the first watch shift and Laurel sets about zipping their sleeping bags together so she can spread out on the floor. When she’s settled in the nest of fabric, eyes closed, she feels Michaela sidle up to her and plant a kiss on her forehead before she settles in for the first few hours, eyes trained on the door.

“Michaela?”

There’s only a sliver of moonlight from the tiny window to illuminate Laurel as she presses her fingers to her lips, then her heart. She wonders if it’s enough light, if Michaela can see her, because what feels like forever passes and she does nothing in response.

Michaela finally speaks, softly, and Laurel can hear her eyes rolling in the dark. “Yeah, I know. I love you too.”


End file.
